


Mikey

by hatshepsut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Sexual Age Play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:29:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2400167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatshepsut/pseuds/hatshepsut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people regress at times of stress. And who's under more stress than Mycroft?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Uncle John

**Author's Note:**

> I love Sherlock age play, and it occurred to me I've ever seen one where Mycroft ages down. Age play is all about unwinding, though, and who needs to unwind more than Mycroft? Also an excuse for paternal!John and possible future paternal!Lestrade.

John Watson realized with an odd sort of alarm that he was getting used to this. Just now, he hadn't been the least bit surprised to see a black SUV pull up alongside he and Sherlock. They were returning from what Sherlock had assured him would be a relaxing couples' stroll, but had turned out to be a chance for Sherlock to observe what he felt was possible increased pedophile activity in the local park. In the end, it had been merely a croquet club whose members had taken to wearing thin mustaches in an effort to build a little esprit de corps.

The car came to a stop beside them, and a stony faced chauffeur emerged to open the back door. The backseat was empty, which was unusual. More surprising, Sherlock stepped in calmly and without hesitation. He turned back and looked thoughtfully at his partner for a moment.

"Come along then, John."

***

Arriving at a nondescript glass office tower which, once inside, appeared to be decorated in the style of Buckingham Palace, John was again struck by how positively Holmes-saturated his life had become in a few short years. He followed Sherlock's unerring progress through oddly angled hallways before their arrival in an antechamber where Anthea waited at her desk.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." She regarded John stiffly.

"Indeed." Undeterred, Sherlock pushed through the door to their left and into what could only be Mycroft's own ridiculously well-appointed office. The man wasn't in evidence. Sherlock glanced about dismissively before walking around to the back of the enormous burnished oak desk, waving his hand in the vague manner that meant John was to follow him. John resisted rolling his eyes and rounded the desk to see Mycroft Holmes, the British Government personified, sitting on the ground in his suit, knees pulled up to his chest and thumb firmly planted in his mouth.

"Mikey," Sherlock said, surprisingly soft in tone, and the boy looked up from where he'd been idly tracing the patterns in the carpet with a finger.

Mycroft took his hand and stood, following docily as Sherlock lead them all back out to the car.

***

After a silent car ride, Sherlock had led his brother by the hand up the stairs to 221B and left him on the couch, pausing only to deposit the afghan onto his lap. He'd then promptly retreated to the kitchen to review slides and drink tea, John on his heels.

"Well?"

"Well what, John?" It was said with the arch dismissal that made John hard as nails at some times, and made him itch to strangle his partner at others. This occasion was one of the latter.

"What is this?"

"Well, obviously, Mycroft has regressed, John. It often occurs when he goes through periods of particularly pronounced occupational stress. It's really very boring." John peered out at the figure now curled up in a loose ball on the couch.

"What are you going to do with him now?"

"Do? I'm not going to do anything, John. When this happens, I put him on the sofa and allow him to await the return of his senses."

"So you're not going to talk to him? Make him comfortable?" Sherlock regarded John as though he were suggesting something quite absurd. John sighed. Of course he was going to have to handle this. He was the only one present who could be bothered with social skills at the moment. At most moments.

John put on his best, hopefully child-friendly smile and sat down on the sofa by Mycroft's feet.

"Hello there. I'm John. What's your name?"

Mycroft looked up from his knees. They had been the safest place to look.

"I'm Mikey," he said quietly, unsure.

"Mikey? You must be Sherlock's brother. He's told me all about you." Mycroft nodded with a pleased flush. "Do you know who I am, Mikey?"

"You're my brother's boyfriend." The sly Holmes love of knowing more than one is meant to was in evidence.

"You're quite right, there's a clever lad." John wasn't surprised to see another flush, the Holmes love of being praised for slyness also present. "Sherlock's told me you'll be spending the night with us, and we're both very pleased to have you." Mycroft threw a dubious glance back towards the kitchen.

"We're both very pleased," John repeated more firmly. "Now, it's not quite bedtime yet. Do you know what you would like to do until then?" Mycroft shook his head, feeling shy again, and twisted the blanket a bit between his fingers.

"Well are you hungry or thirsty? You can have anything you like from the kitchen." John heard a snort from that direction, and so did Mycroft, who flushed red and went back to staring at his knees. 

"Oi," John said gently, smoothing the blanket over Mycroft's legs, "don't listen to sour old Sherlock. Who knows what he's making noise about. We could have a late tea, just you and me, how's that?"

Mycroft shook his head, keeping his eyes on the blanket as though it would keep him safe. 

"All right. Would you like to watch a bit of telly, then?"

Another shake, even smaller. Mycroft didn't know what to do. This wasn't like the times he'd been little at Sherlock's before, and he didn't know what was expected of him.

"Would you like to play a game?" He couldn't help perking up a bit in interest. "What game do you like to play?"

"Chess?" Mycroft looked up hopefully. 

"Ah, it might be a bit late to start a game of chess, pet." John felt like a heel, but Mycroft nodded obediently. "Are there any other games you'd like to play?" His face brightened suddenly.

"Hide the penny!"

"Hide the--I'm afraid I don't know how to play?"

"One person hides a penny somewhere in the room and the other must find it." Although the answer seemed painfully obvious to him, Mycroft was careful to be polite. He wasn't sure what the rules were here and he certainly didn't want a punishment.

"Ah, I see. Is that a game you play with Sherlock?" Mycroft nodded excitedly. "Then he'll simply have to join us." Finally, a genuine smile out of the boy. "Why don't we change you into your pajamas and brush your teeth first? Then you'd be nice and comfortable and ready for bed when we're done with our game." The man was still in his three piece, and it wasn't really suitable for curling up on the couch. Or searching for pennies, in all likelihood. Mycroft nodded obediently. 

"Yes, sir."

"You don't have to call me sir, lad. I'm just John, eh?"

"Yes, Mr. John."

The doctor cut his losses in nomenclature and led Mycroft down the hall to his old bedroom, now the spare, and set him to washing up while John fetched some of his own clothes. Mycroft fumbled a bit with his buttons, and John helped him out of the suit and hung it carefully, then held up the clothes he'd brought.

"Shall I help you get dressed? Or you want to do it yourself?"

"Do it myself," came the shy reply.

"Very well then, I'll just go and get Sherlock for our game, hmm?"

***

"Sherlock, I--" Sherlock looked up from the eyepiece of his microscope with a smile.

"Ahh John! Finished with my brother then? Don't suppose you'd mind popping down Tesco's for a minute? I've simply--"

"No. What?" John shook his head to clear it. "No, Sherlock. I've promised your brother to play a game of hiding pennies." This earned him a disdainful look.

"John, surely you don't believe you'll be able to exercise a sufficient level of subtlety to fool Mycroft at a game of observation, even in his current state."

"Of course not. Which is why you're going to play." Sherlock frowned, a rebellious look taking hold, and John struck while the iron was hot. "Or perhaps we could pass the time observing if any experiments have found their way onto the potable shelves and as such are to be thrown away as per last week's agreement." 

Sherlock attempted to glare, but found it ineffective in the face of a surprisingly serious doctor.

"You've been horrible to him since he got here, Sherlock. It won't kill you to pay him a bit of attention, and you've got nothing else going on."

Sherlock huffed loudly to show his displeasure before launching himself out of his seat and into the lounge, where Mycroft was emerging from the bedroom in John's track bottoms and 'GPs do it in the clinic!' t-shirt. A penny hit the front of the shirt with a flat sound and Mycroft caught it.

"Your turn, little brother," Sherlock drawled. John considered reprimanding him for it but decided against it when he saw the great pleased smile that produced.

***

John soon found himself eliminated from the game, which included a surprising number of arcane scoring rules. Instead, he watched the interplay between the two as Sherlock attempted to locate the tiny coin while observing the many complicated rules governing acceptable parameters for search and deduction. The detective had warmed up to the game quite admirably, and it really was lovely to watch him work without any pressure from pursuing madmen. Mycroft seemed to be enjoying it too, and giggled broadly at his brother's efforts.

But soon the penny was found and Mycroft was yawning between giggles. He felt sleepy but content, and very warm on the couch next to John. 

"Bed time, I think," the doctor pronounced. "For the both of you." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John tried to meet it with a gaze that conveyed his intentions. After all, he tried to use positive reinforcement with Sherlock, and it really wouldn't do to let the detective go unrewarded for good behavior towards his brother. In addition  
to which, seeing Sherlock at his most focused was rather...invigorating to John.  
"Ahh yes, well, bedtime then. Good night." Sherlock was out of the room like a flash, leaving Mycroft feeling a bit dazed.

"Right then," John said gently. "Sherlock's gone off to bed, and so shall we." 

Mycroft nodded, but he was a bit confused why his brother had gone so quickly, and he was tired and his deductions were so slow when he was small he couldn't quite figure it out, and it made him feel worried and not at all warm like he'd been before. But now John was moving down the hall towards the bedroom, and Mycroft didn't want to be left all alone, so he hurried to follow.

"Do you need to use the toilet before bed?"

"No, sir." Mycroft was careful to be polite again. His head was getting a bit achey, as it had a tendency to do when he was little, and he just wanted to go to bed without getting himself in any trouble.

John turned down the blanket and patted the bed for Mikey to get in, and he did, rubbing his eyes. 

"Thirsty? Do you need any water?"

"No thank you, sir." John chuckled.

"Now, you needn't call me sir." He immediately regretted the words as Mycroft's gaze snapped down to his lap.

"I'm sorry," he said, fingers winding and unwinding in the hem of the tshirt. He always said something wrong. 

"It's alright, mate." John squeezed the boy's shoulder. "I'm not cross. This is all rather new, isn't it?"

Mikey nodded, swallowing.

"It's new to me, too. Shall we make a rule, neither of us gets cross at the other for little things, what do you say?"

"Yes, Mr. John." John managed to suppress his chuckle this time.

"Good lad." He pulled the boy in for a hug, and though it was unfamiliar, Mikey didn't find it horrible. "How about Uncle John? Do you think you could call me that?"

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, Uncle John." He sounded a bit less miserable.

"Good. Clever lad." John was already beginning to suspect he'd hit on a more sensitive and no less needy version of Sherlock, and as with Sherlock, praise would likely be key.

"Why don't you lie down now, make yourself comfortable." Mycroft lay down as bit and closed his eyes, but he still worried the hem of the blanket. Clearly there was something else. John thought back a bit. Periods of occupational stress.

"Have you been having a very difficult time lately?" he ventured.

Mikey nodded almost imperceptibly against his pillow, so John continued. 

"But you did your best job? All you could do?"

Mikey nodded desperately.

"Then that's all there is, lad. One little boy can't fix everything." John patted his shoulder for emphasis. "Your best job is frightfully good. Anyone should be proud of that." This seemed to quiet the boy down a bit, and John waited a moment. "Do you think you can sleep now?"

"Yes, Uncle John." 

"Good boy. Do you know where our room is, in case you need to come find us?" Mycroft nodded. "Good. Good night, Mikey." He patted the boy's shoulder and felt him slowly release the bit of duvet he'd been gripping. "Sherlock and I will be here in the morning."

But in the morning, he found the gray suit gone and the bed neatly made up, John's clothes folded carefully at the foot.


	2. After the dentist

It was the worst damned day for this. He'd finally got Sherlock into bed after what approached a week without sleep on their latest case, and had further succeeded in assuring an irate Mrs. Hudson that the not insignificant damage caused by a chase that had ended up at 221B would be fixed by evening. So now, with a substantial amount of DIY standing between him and his own bed, was not the time John wanted to be dealing with a suddenly small brother-in-law.

And yet the call had come, Anthea tersely conveying that, routine dental anesthesia having sent the British Government into the now-familiar regression, he would be receiving said brother-in-law in 10 to 20 minutes, depending on afternoon traffic.

True to Anthea's word, John was soon opening the door to a swollen-jawed Mycroft. Mikey gave him a loopy smile while a serious security agent handed John a small paper pharmacy bag, and then they were alone.

John rubbed a hand over his hair.

"Listen mate, Uncle John's got to do some work round the flat. So you can sit on the sofa with a nice children's programme while I do a bit of boring work, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded happily, even though his thoughts felt strange in his head. He always did just as Uncle John said. Uncle John was never cross, and he played games. Mikey liked him an awful lot.

He also liked how Uncle John tucked him up on the couch with a blanket that was warm and a bag of frozen carrots that was cold. That made Mikey giggle. He liked that Uncle John put on the telly, too, but Mikey soon grew bored with it. He looked over to where Uncle John was making quite a lot of noise working on a table. He was swearing under his breath, which made Mikey giggle too, but Uncle John didn't notice. Maybe Uncle John needed help. Mikey didn't want to disobey, but he hadn't precisely been told to stay put, so...

John was struggling fruitlessly in his attempt to reattach a table leg to the kitchen table. It should have been easy enough to bolt into place once he got it into position and yet the idiot thing would not get into bloody position. He made one more attempt, hitching the wood up to lie flush and--the table leg fit perfectly. John blinked in surprise and looked up to see Mycroft smiling happily at him, having located a missing bit of the corner and slid it in. He must really be tired if he'd managed to fuck up a task that had been solved by a giant six year old.

John sighed. "Well done, lad." Mycroft beamed.

After nailing the recalcitrant table leg back into place (with a healthy dose of wood glue added for good measure), some minor wall repair, and the largely successful cleaning of two sizable blood stains, John was ready to admit that even a regressed, somewhat disoriented Holmes might be better than he at DIY. John scratched his head, oddly satisfied and ready to put them both to bed.

Mycroft brought his hand up to rub at his jaw, and John caught his wrist.

"Don't touch, pet," he said gently, and Mikey looked up at him pathetically.

"Is your mouth hurting? You want Uncle John to bring you some medicine?" A tiny nod. "Alright. Go on to your room and get dressed for bed, I'll bring it to you there." Mikey was staring down at his lap, a sure sign he was uncomfortable. Seized by a less and less unusual wave of affection, he ran a hand through the boy's hair. "Go on, Mikey."

John brought a pill into the spare room he'd somehow started to think of as Mikey's. The patient looked right miserable but he'd been obedient as usual and put on his pajamas.

John pulled down the duvet for him and patted the mattress. He sat and Uncle John gave him a small white pill and a glass of water. Mikey swallowed it, but his jaw hurt more than before and he felt more like crying than going to sleep. But Uncle John looked tired too, and Mikey didn't want to be troublesome. He rubbed the sheet between his fingers.

"Hmm." Mikey looked up to see Uncle John was watching him. "I've an idea." Uncle John turned and left the room, returning a minute later with a kitchen towel in his hand. He placed the towel along Mycroft's jaw and Mikey felt the cold of it bloom across his skin. He looked up in surprise and Uncle John gave him a tired smile and ruffled his hair.

"Get comfortable." Mikey lay down with his uninjured side on the pillow. Uncle John replaced the icepack carefully on his jaw and brought Mikey's hand over it to hold it on.

"I appreciated your help today." Uncle John squeezed his knee under the coverlet. "You're a frightfully good boy, do you know? Sherlock and I are always happy to have you." Mycroft didn't know what to say, so he didn't. Uncle John pulled the blankets up around his shoulders.

"If you need anything, come and get me, eh? There's more of the medicine if you need it." Mikey nodded. He was starting to feel the medicine more and it made him sleepy. He drifted off thinking about carrots and table legs.

\--

Mikey woke to a throbbing head. No, a throbbing jaw. He couldn't think what to do, and it made him feel worried. He thought about calling for mummy, but then thought better of it. Mummy wasn't here, but he couldn't remember why. Uncle John was here, and Sherlock. Should he go and wake them? He felt very small and he wanted a cuddle and for Uncle John to make him feel better again.

But--but he knew he wasn't to make a fuss. Mikey was still tired, so Sherlock and Uncle John must be tired, too. He didn't want to be a naughty boy who kept people awake. And he knew he wasn't to leave his bed after he was put there, he'd been punished for that before. Uncle John had said he could come wake him, but was this enough of a reason? Mikey didn't know what to do, and he didn't want to take any chances. He loved Sherlock and Uncle John and he couldn't bear for them to be angry with him. He opened his mouth to suck his thumb, but it hurt too much. So he curled up around his pillow and waited.

\--

It was almost physically painful for John to wake early as he did, given the usual post-case exhaustion, but he really couldn't lose his clinic job and he'd already cancelled three shifts that week for the case. It was probably down to Mycroft's influence that he hadn't lost it already. _Mycroft_. There was no telling how long Sherlock might be out, he'd better check on the boy before leaving.

John padded down the hall in his stocking feet quietly as possible for a quick listen. The door was ajar and from it emerged...sniffling. John suppressed a thought about simplicity and why it never happened to him and opened the door.

"Mikey?" The sniffles ceased immediately. John made his way to the bed and gently uncovered the boy's nest of blanket. "What's wrong?" Mikey was curled up around himself and wet cheeked.

"Are you hurting? Do you need more medicine?" Silence.

Uncle John rose, and fetched the medicine anyway. Obediently, Mikey sat up and accepted a tablet.

"Why didn't you come and ask me for one, pet? I was right down the hallway." Uncle John placed the glass of water back on the nightstand and gave him a tissue.

Mikey bit his lip as he wrung it in his hands. He didn't know why. He'd just woken up very small and with a very hurty mouth and he'd been frightened to leave the bed least he wake everyone. The last thing he wanted was to be troublesome for Sherlock and Uncle John in case they wouldn't let him stay anymore, and he'd have nowhere to go and it would be all his fault for being bad. He swallowed against the lump in his throat and shook his head.

John sighed. "Well, I have to go to work. And I don't want to leave you alone if you're not feeling well." Uncle John seemed to be thinking, and his hand came up to pat Mikey's back absently. That was nice because it meant Uncle John wasn't cross with him.

"All right. Tell you what we'll do. You're going to come down the hall and climb into our bed. I'm going to leave you some medicine on the bedside if you need it. Sherlock's having his sleep after a case, so he'll be out till the evening. You can cuddle up to him. Yeah?"

Mikey wasn't sure about Uncle John leaving. But he wanted a cuddle more than anything, so he nodded. Uncle John rewarded him with a smile.

"Good lad. Up you get." John led him down the hall with a firm hand on his back and lifted up the coverlet for Mikey to slide under, which he did. Uncle John came back with a cup of tea and two more pills on the saucer.

"These are for you, and I expect you to take them if you need them, Mikey," Uncle John told him firmly. "I've left toast in the kitchen if you start to feel hungry."

Mikey nodded at him very seriously.

"If anything happens, you wake Sherlock, all right? I'll be back at lunchtime."

Mikey nodded, but his eyelids were starting to droop. He felt Uncle John ruffle his hair as he stood up, then his footsteps as he walked away. Mikey wasn't so worried anymore. He turned over and wriggled over to Sherlock, seeking warmth, and let himself drift. 


End file.
